A Great And Terrible Fury
by GrayToneSkies
Summary: Boris Petrov, The Fury, wasn't ready for the war he chose to dive into. Driven to join the Cobra Unit by revenge, Fury finds he must choose either failure or a unit he is distrustful of. Saddled with demons from his past and accidental knowledge of the Philosophers, can Fury trust the Cobras and live long enough to end World War II? Rated for language, death, racism, and triggers.


**A story about the Cobra Unit centralized around somebody besides Sorrow and Joy? _Impossible!_ Now, you may be wondering why I just went against what everyone else in the entire fandom and made Fury the final Cobra to be found, and why he's only twenty five rather than the age he probably should be, like thirty. Well, because I felt like it. **

**What you should be asking is why _Fury_ is the main character, of all people!**

 **Because everyone keeps asking why he's on the team, and why he's so angry, that's why. I feel obligated to give him a reason to be so angry. You know, besides becoming fried chicken. Anyways, try to enjoy!**

* * *

Boris closed his eyes as he took a drag from the hot cigarette, feeling chemicals fill his lungs, a nice contrast to the cold snow he was resting upon. He felt somewhat numb as he sat in the chilled air, as if the cold had pierced into his soul to chill it like his body. It was the end of January, so snow was in no short supply. He reached for the cord around his neck, pulling a silver ring with a single rounded ruby threaded on the cord from his shirt, and brushed his fingers over the precious stone. After a moment, he kissed the gemstone and tucked it back into his shirt with a silent prayer. He took one final drag before he buried the lit end of his cigarette in the snow. Boris rose to his feet, pulling a small bottle filled with kerosene and a matchbox from his bag.

"Wish me luck, Marina…" He muttered to himself, almost as if he was speaking to someone else there, burying the bag.

Boris broke into a jog, the light crunch beneath his feet making him cringe as he tried to move along. He knew there were patrols waiting to find intruders and spies, with orders to shoot first and never bother with questions. After a couple minutes, he crouched and pressed himself to the snow. A small patrol of six strolled toward Boris, though unaware of what his presence. He held as still as possible, even holding his breath when they got too close and wishing his heart wouldn't beat as loudly. A part of him felt grateful he had learned German as a child, though he resented the entire country the language came from. The things they had done to the Motherland were unforgivable, and so were the pains they had left him with. Boris tucked his supplies inside his jacket so they wouldn't see anything but a mound of white snow.

He listened as the first one spoke, translating what they had to say. "Why do they even bother with patrols so deep into Deutschland? Nobody's crazy enough to attack us, we're nearly three hundred miles inland."

"Haven't you heard?" Another one asked, "You mean to tell me you don't know about the arsonist? There's someone running around setting fire to our camps and bases."

The first one came to a halt only a meter and a half from Boris, "Really now? This deep into the Fatherland? Must be a Russian."

"I think so, too. It started at the Russian border last month." A third one said, adjusting his belt while he spoke.

"Cheeky bastard." The second one commented, and they began moving away as they continued their conversation.

Boris took a slow, deep breath, relaxed by the movement away from him. He crawled toward the trees, nestling into the sheet of sleet as he considered where to begin the fire. After a moment of thought, he recalled that the engineering bay was always full of flammable liquids and materials. To light it in the engineering room beside something dangerous with a symbol on it was guaranteed to wreck the base. He felt his pulse quicken as he crawled forward, falling as still as death when another patrol rushed by. They were sprinting as if there was an emergency to attend to. Boris felt the blood in his veins turn to frost as he wondered if he had been found out by someone and they were searching for him.

"Remember men, kill on sight!" One of them yelled as he led his team by.

As soon as they were away from the brunet, he got up and rushed into the base. He felt his heart pound against his ribcage, noting that there was a lack of soldiers in the open. That meant they were outside, looking for him. They probably thought he was still out there, which meant escape was difficult. Boris crept into the engineering bay, seeing rows of dangerous chemicals. He stalked forward, breath shuddering as he got out the kerosene and match for the second time. A sound, the sound of a gun's safety being turned off quickly, caused him to freeze.

"Arsonist, I assume." A thickly accented German man said in his native tongue.

Anger slowly pulsed through his veins as he replied, "Fuck you, your mother, your children, your wife, and your pets."

"I don't think you're in any position to be insulting me, young man. You've been nothing but trouble for the Fuhrer." He said, his footsteps growing closer.

Boris replied, "That was my intention, gov'nyuk."

"Turn around, Russian." He ordered.

Boris bit back another insult, doing as the man told him to do. After a moment, he recognized the man as a colonel. He snorted to himself as the colonel pressed the gun to his head, then was pistol whipped across the side of the head, immediately falling to the ground. He placed the gun to Boris's head once more.

"Would you like to join us, Russian? You'd be of much use." He asked.

Boris spat on his face, then said, "I'd rather you shot me here and now than help you Nazi fuckers!"

"I can arrange that right now."

"Go ahead. I hope your wife murders your dog ass."

"Whatever you say."

Just as the shot was about to be taken, a single bang rang out through the air, a bullet hole in the colonel's forehead. The gun slid out of his hand, clattering to the floor as he fell forward onto Boris. The brunet pushed him off on instinct, leaped to his feet, and whipped to see who was at the door. A young woman stood in the entrance, her blonde hair in a green headband, wearing a white jumpsuit with a hood. She was holding a gun he vaguely recognized as an American Patriot, but American weapon or not, she could just be a power hungry subordinate out for his blood. He clambered back against the wall.

"You alright?" She asked in English.

Boris didn't care that she was asking about his well being, suspecting it to be a ploy. He threw open a window, darting through it, out into the open expanse. He dumped the kerosene in the window as she tried to give chase, then lit the match as the woman dived away and tossed it on the flammable substance. As soon as the fire was lit, he sprinted away from the scene in a hurry. He undid the jacket and dropped in on the tarmac without stopping, knowing the more weight he had on him, the slower he would be.

The young man weaved through the trees as quickly as possible, shots repeatedly going off behind him. They weren't the same as the one the woman was shooting, he noted, though he scolded himself internally for considering that fact to be more important than finding an escape route. His breath hitched when the edge of a cliff came in sight. He stumbled and fell just in front of it. He whipped his head back to see at least two dozen Nazis coming his way, shooting wildly. He looked down, judging that the injuries from the fall could be possible hypothermia, a few broken bones, and several cuts. He looked back at the Nazis as one shot him in the side, a cry of pain breaking past his lips. He dove off the cliff, deciding he'd rather risk the injuries of the fall than being guaranteed to die at the hands of the Nazis. He felt lightning race through his left ankle as he landed on it, and the cold burned against his skin, but didn't cry out, having been braced for the feeling beforehand.

He dragged himself under the cover of the trees, then rolled up his pant leg with teeth clenched, "Damn it…"

A groan escaped his lips. He had dumped his jacket to get away, which had any medical supplies he could have carried in it. He closed his eyes as a wave of pain rolled over him, trying his best not to make a sound. They immediately snapped open at the sound of crunching snow under a human's boots. Boris scanned the area, eyes wild, until he barely made out the silhouette of a man. He had pale skin, hair such a light blond that it matched the snow, and was wearing a white turtleneck, a white cloak, and white military cargo pants. He wore metallic glasses, the only part of him that didn't blend with the snow. Boris tried to scramble to his feet, but he buckled when he tried to put weight on his left leg.

"Calm down," The man said, speaking Russian in a deep, soft voice, the accent driving the point home, "I promise I would never hurt you."

Boris knew he didn't have a chance to run, feeling the cold creeping inwards as he tried to stop the shivering that must have set in minutes ago. Anger flowed through his veins at the weakness. "Don't touch me."

"You need medical attention. Please, let me help you." The Russian man murmured, or perhaps that was his normal tone of voice.

Boris repeated, drawing his lips back into a snarl as he spoke, "Don't touch me."

Despite what Boris had told him, the Russian came toward him while pulling gauze from his backpack. He crouched in front of Boris, whose skin was beginning to turn blue from the chill he had exposed himself to. The man took off his cloak, pulling it around Boris, who flinched as he did so. The man then began checking on Boris's leg with a touch of concern, though his expression relaxed, and wrapped the injured ankle with gauze.

"My name is The Sorrow. I was sent to find you after you escaped from The Joy." Sorrow said, adjusting his glasses by the arms, "We are American forces. Do not be afraid."

Boris could feel his body starting to warm, just a bit. "I'm not."

"Let me take you with us to the extraction point. We can get you medical care at the Russian base we are currently at." Sorrow tilted his head, pulling the cloak closed around Boris.

Boris immediately demanded, "How do you know I'm not a Nazi spy?"

Heartbeats passed between the two as the silence between then lingered. The Russians both stared deep into one another's eyes, and the blond looked away first. He adjusted his glasses with a slow nod, almost as if considering the answer to give. Sorrow brought an arm underneath Boris's left arm, helping him rise despite the silence.

"You're not. I can just tell." Sorrow finally said, then began helping Boris hobble along.

After a few minutes of walking, the young woman from before approached them, putting her weapon away when she saw Boris jerk back. She had his jacket over her shoulder. Soon, four men clad in white joined them, and Boris felt frustrated by that. He was so afraid of a bunch of Americans dressed in white, working for the same goal he was! A soft growl of fury escaped his lips as they came closer to him, and he felt the urge to burn all of them creep into his heart. A tall, almost dangerously thin man walked forward and pulled his own hood back, his dark hair being freed from containment.

"Who's this?" He asked in English, his voice grating on Boris's ears.

The woman said, "Brandstifter. The arsonist the Germans were talking about when you scared them, Fear. He beat us to most of the targets we were supposed to destroy up here, remember?"

"This man is pathetic." Fear, as the woman called him, commented.

Boris lunged at him, tackling the creepy man to the ground and pinning him, "Stay that to my face, motherfucker!"

"He speaks English?" The woman asked while dragging him off Fear.

He glared up at her, "Oh, you can bet I do, you _bitch_."

Sorrow said, "Please, fighting is unwanted this moment. He is hurt, Joy."

"I can see that," She said, "How did he get injured?"

Sorrow explained, helping to restrain Boris, "He has gunshot wound, and he jumped from cliff to escape Nazis. His ankle is sprained. Please, Joy, he needs medical attention…"

After a long moment, Joy sighed and nodded, "Alright."

Boris's vision blurred for a moment, a reminder that he was losing blood at rapid rate. He groaned and leaned into the Joy, noticing that she was stronger than the Sorrow. The irritating man, Fear, as Joy called him, laughed at the weakness Boris showed. An elderly man with a parrot approached him, and began wrapping the gunshot wound, mumbling about how Sorrow should have wrapped the injury before he moved the brunet. He glared at Fear, who was leaning over his shoulder with a crooked smile that was aggravating Boris.

"Go away, you dick." Boris growled.

Fear licked him with his forked tongue, letting him see it afterwards. "You taste like snails."

"What the- did you just- that's _disgusting_!" He reached out and grabbed the tongue, yanking on it due to unbridled shock.

Fear gave several squeaks before Sorrow intervened with a gentle hand wrapping around the wrist of the horrified man. "Moy Bog, Fear, do not antagonize the man. Brandstifter, please let go."

"That's," Boris stammered, "That's, it's gross. Why's his tongue, why's it like that?"

Sorrow gave a sigh, crouching down, "That is not the strangest thing or the worst thing about him. It gets worse."

The old man stood and moved away from Boris, the wound cleaned and wrapped. Boris got to his feet despite the pain in his ankle, and felt his head spin, his vision fading in and out due to something more than blood loss. He swayed for a moment, and Sorrow caught him as his balance was lost. The man carefully lowered him to the ground, making sure that the cloak remained between Boris and the cold snow as Joy pulled his jacket over him.

"Rest now, Brandstifter. The sedatives will help you."

The world became oblivion once Sorrow's voice faded away.


End file.
